


The New Butcher of Baltimore

by orphan_account



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Mob, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Neil Josten, Knives, M/M, Major Character Injury, Minor Character Death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, a lot of violence and death and destruction, be prepared
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-04
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2020-01-04 18:05:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18348911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Neil Josten was raised to be the next Butcher of Baltimore. But at the tender age of eight, he toppled his parent's empire with the help of Ichirou Moriyama and Kevin Day. Eleven years later, his father escaped prison and now Neil's back on the run from the monsters under his bed. With the help of FBI Agent Andrew Minyard, Neil has to rebuild his father's empire to survive. How fast can he run before it's too late?[or what if Mary was apart of the mob like the rest of the Hatford's; the question is how much of the story does that change?]





	The New Butcher of Baltimore

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PanicAtTheAlice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PanicAtTheAlice/gifts).



> this was originally a prompt from my creative writing class. we were working on the six great themes of fiction; this one was "origins of violence". i was just messing around and then suddenly, i had this brilliant idea. what if neil grew up around both of his mob families? i also wanted to mess around with my style, so i wrote the story in present tense and obviously flashbacks stayed in past tense. i now kind of hate past-me because of this but what can you do.
> 
> i'm very excited to share this and i have to thank my dude, my buddy, my pal PanicAtTheAlice for beta-ing, but knowing us we will definitely misspell so many words.

****The room is completely dark and empty. No sound but the muffled car horns through the wall. The metal floor is cold and hard underneath his body. His hands are tied behind his back; his ankles chained to a loop on the floor.

He shouldn’t be, but he is terrified. His fear doubles, triples, quadruples, and grows exponentially until it almost consumes him. He is going to die and there is nothing he can do to stop it.

Born to Nathan Wesninski and Mary Hatford, Nathaniel Wesninski grew up in the worst of families. His parents were leaders of two opposing mobs, brought together into a single biological offspring. Decades of bloodshed halted by a lone child.

He grew up surrounded by men and women who could kill him forty-eight times over, with weapons that weren’t weapons at all.

Nathaniel, at the age seven, was the right hand to his father; he was the next Butcher of Baltimore.

No one was prepared for sweet Nathan Junior, next in line for the throne, to betray his family and sell them out to the feds.

Most were able to flee, go into hiding, but his father and many of the main circle were arrested.

Now, eleven years later, everything Nathaniel had worked for started crumbling. His father escaped prison and had made it his mission to find the insolent offspring who destroyed an almost century old mafia.

The squeaking metal hinges of the door alert him to the presence of a visitor. He hopes it is his father, only because his death would be faster that way.

“Hey, Junior.”

It is not his father.

Lola Malcolm was not what you would imagine when you thought of a deranged murderer with almost one thousand confirmed kills.

She was blonde, with hair cropped into a short bob, and always wore a heavy coating of bright red lipstick. Dresses of bright colors and patterns were a constant. Laugh lines framed her face but she was not funny, only psychopathic.

“I’ve missed you, Junior,” she murmurs. “I bet you look just like your daddy now.”

Lola was also the official, unofficial mistress of the Butcher of Baltimore. After Mary left the life of crime, at least.

Tremors roll through Nathaniel’s body; every shift of the air has him on edge.

She turns on the light, badly illuminated the manic grin painted on her face. She holds a single knife in one hand and a cigarette lighter in the other.

She walks over to him, towering over and somehow her grin stretches farther across her face.

“This is gonna be so much fun, Junior!”

She grabs his chin in a tight grip, forcing him to stay in her hold. She lifts the knife and gently places it on his right cheek.

“Now, Junior, you know I love you, but the phrase is snitches end up in ditches for a reason.” She carefully drags the knife down from the corner of his eye to his mouth, not yet using enough pressure to break the skin. “Although I don’t think there’ll be enough of you left to end up in a ditch.”

The first cut is always the worst. The imaginary line she drew becomes a deep gash, her knife pushing into his skin. The only sound he can make is a whimper.

She immediately follows that up with two more cuts, barely a centimeter apart from the previous one. She starts laughing at this point, but it’s much more terrifying to be on the receiving end of the laughter.

She cuts the rope that ties his hands together and grabs one hand in between her two. The lighter is now on the floor and his other hand is held securely beneath her foot, which now supported most of her weight.

She digs, cutting into the tendons of each finger and a crisscross pattern following the creases of the palm of his hand. His screams start to echo around the barren room, Lola’s maniacal laughter doubles.

She does the same with the other, placing the bleeding hand underneath her dirty boot. Once she is satisfied with her work, she picks up the cigarette lighter and clicks it several times, slowing bringing it closer to his face.

“Junior, that tattoo of yours can’t be on your face anymore. We just can’t let you keep it,” she says.

Nathaniel got the tattoo of the number three on his left cheek when he met Ichirou Moriyama, the mob boss who controlled the police force of Baltimore. Ichirou was number one; Kevin Day was his right hand, his number two. Nathaniel was his left hand.

Lola clicks the cigarette lighter and burns the tattoo right off of his skin. The smell of burning flesh fills his nostrils and the resounding scream rips through his throat, echoing louder off the walls.

After a few agonizing seconds, Lola admires her work.

“Now, isn’t that better, Junior?” she asks.

His only response is a pitiful whimper. She laughs, the disgusting sound ricocheting off the walls.

A shadow behind Lola startles Nathaniel out of his self pity. Hoping for a rescue he knows will never come, Nathaniel cranes his neck to see who the shadow is.

The man is none other than his father, Nathan Wesninski, the only Butcher of Baltimore. Nathan is a very imposing man, towering over most he encounters. His fiery red hair now is mostly grey and his once sky blue eyes are now as cold and icy as his demeanor. The nickname “Junior” was only because Nathaniel looked like a carbon copy of his father.

Lola turns and makes a pleased noise. Nathan just pushes her out of the way.

“I see you’re still alive, boy? I’d’ve thought once Lola was done with you, there be nothing left for me,” he says.

By now, Nathaniel is tired, tired of running, of fighting, and if death is staring in the eyes, then he can say that he welcomes it and he hopes it’s worth it.

Nathan’s weapon of choice is much more brutal than Lola’s: a dull cleaver. It’s meant to be painful, it’s meant to be agonizing when he hacks people apart, limb by limb, appendage by appendage.

“This isn’t revenge, boy. I may be pissing mad, but this ain’t revenge. This is compensation for all the time I spent on you. It’s preemptive action against another betrayal, boy. But this isn’t revenge.”

He raises his cleaver to strike at Nathaniel's ankle, his smile growing, but he and Lola are shot down. Their bodies thump on the metal floor and a man no taller than five foot, dressed in a federal uniform remains.

“Andrew Minyard. FBI. Medical attention is on it’s—”

That’s the last thing Nathaniel remembers before he blacks out.

**Author's Note:**

> kudos, comments, and critiques are highly appreciated


End file.
